


Tactile Memory

by casecous



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, MGS: Peace Walker, Mild Blood, Peace Walker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casecous/pseuds/casecous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you hadn't taken it, we'd have bled out in the jungle like we should have. But you held it in your hand and it aches for you.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactile Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is so short. Some real metaphorical shit;; Kaz POV/ PW days

You hold it in your hand like a grenade beating bright red blood onto the grass and down your forearm to the elbow. His calloused fingertips graze your wrist as he closes his hand over yours and takes it from your weakening fingers, carrying it like a holy relic. It’s sacrilege, your blood mixing with his at the scrapes in his knuckles before he places it in back inside you. _You weren’t supposed to do that._

\--

You think it remembers his touch. Because it’s the only explanation for how it tries to escape through your rib cage whenever he’s around. You wonder if his hand remembers too. He always stretches it, five fingers to opposite points, when he leaves the room.

_He wasn’t supposed to do it._

\--

Your hands shake as he watches you unbutton the top four buttons on your shirt, the yellow scarf already discarded onto the chair. When you take a step forward, he takes one step back.  You keep trying until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and there is nothing between you except an echo of a heartbeat and uneven breaths. His hand surrenders to yours so easily and you thank him with a brush of your thumb against his wrist. His palm is cool and damp against the center of your chest where you place it. You slide it against your skin a millimeter at a time, his fingers disappearing under the left side of your shirt, until it slots into place and you have your answer.  He nods once, his blue eye clear and certain in this dim room, and you drop your hand from his, letting your eyes fall closed as his fingertips trace little x’s where stitches might have been. He drops his fingers, leaving emptiness and a familiar ache, until you’re guided forward by the waist so his lips and mustache can press against where his hands once were.  

_It wasn’t yours to touch._

But well, that’s not true. It flutters when he murmurs to it, his lips never leaving your skin. The objection loses words and echoes through every vein and artery and nerve. _Yours, yours, yours._


End file.
